


Throne made of nothing

by sweetlikesugar



Series: Pack Writing [3]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Character Study, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Not Beta Read, Other, Prokopenko character study, yes another one, you will have to rip ukrainian proko from my cold dead hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-19 07:57:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11309082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetlikesugar/pseuds/sweetlikesugar
Summary: “We can be kings”, he whispered.“We can be gods”, Kavinsky grinned.“We can be gods”, Prokopenko echoed, his lips stretching maliciously.





	Throne made of nothing

**Author's Note:**

> I will make you respect Prokopenko even if that's the last thing I'll do, Prokopenko's origin story, his POV of his relationship with pack and Kavinsky, hmu at tumblr @mindlesslittlefreak

Prokopenko doesn't remember much of his childhood. At least that's what he tells everyone.

The truth is, he remembers all too well.

 

When his father decided to leave Ukraine behind, along with his mother, her alcoholism and way too many younger lovers he took Prokopenko along with him. He remembers hastily throwing clothes into his father's suticase, noisy airport and crying on the plane. He remembers trying to find himself among other children with his broken, heavily accented english. He remembers bullying and his heart breaking into thousand pieces before completely shattering in a pile of dust somewhere in his ribcage.

By the age of nine Prokopenko barely spoke and focused solely on observing other children in order to survive.

 

He got into his first fight on the first day of 5th grade. He broke some kid's nose injuring himself in the process, after he made fun of his accent. His father picked him up and dropped him along the way home, saying he needed to go back to work. He was lying, but Prokopenko ignored it.

He wandered around the streets, kicking around rocks and pebbles and looking out for stray dogs. His dad never let him have one, but how would they make room for a dog in a one bedroom apartment. When he finally found one and managed to get close, someone dashed by him, scaring the dog away. He grumbled annoyed, catching a glimpse of black hair and lightly tanned neck, before the boy dissapeared.

 

While growing used to bullying, Prokopenko also got used to watching people. Their body language specifically. He learned to read people and forsee their reactions. It brought him an enormous satisfaction to see people coming to the conclusion that they've been read through. Prokopenko mastered the art of being couple of steps ahead by the age of fourteen. It gave him a sense of power he always wanted.

 

He properly met Kavinsky while trying once again to get a stray dog get close. Other boy lingered couple of steps behind him, watching the scene with practiced disinterest. Prokopenko paid him no mind as the dog carefully sniffed at his bony fingers.

“You're always playing with strays”, Kavinsky commented, in all his twelve year old glory, “don't you have anyone else to play with?”

“Don't you?”, Prokopenko bit back, wiggling his fingers to entice the dog.

Kavinsky made a throaty gurgle and spat out a ball of mucus on the pavement.

“I don't actually”, he shrugged indifferent, “I'm not from here”.

“Neither am I”, Prokopenko smiled crookedly when the dog nipped at his fingertips.

“Be my friend”, Kavinsky demanded, voice high and nasal, but his eyes hid a bone deep longing.

“Okay”, Prokopenko shrugged. It's not like he had any friends to begin with.

 

He hung out with Kavinsky as often as he could. They snuck out of their houses to wander on the streets until sunrise. Kavinsky taught Proko how to throw a proper punch, Proko taught Kavinsky how to get strays to come close. When one day Prokopenko saw Kavinsky painted in purples and blacks he didn't say anything, only stood a little closer, looked around a little bit more sharply.

 

When Kavinsky ran up to him clutching a quite unimpressive switchblade in his hands with eyes shining with manic light, Proko knew their lives were about to change.

“Where did you get that from?”, he asked, thumbing the dull side of the blade curiously.

“My head”, Kavinsky breathed out. He sounded hysterical.

“I don't believe you”, Prokopenko's pulse jumped, heart hammering in his chest.

“I'm telling the truth”, Kavinsky looked about to pass out, ghastly pale with sunken cheeks, “I dreamed about having a knife just like this one and when I woke up I had it”.

“How”, Prokopenko demaned.

“Does it matter?”, Kavinsky's giggles sounded ragged and crazy, “I took it out of my head Proko. That means I can take anything out”.

Prokopenko squeezed his wrist, nails drawing blood from other boys' hand.

“We can be kings”, he whispered.

“We can be gods”, Kavinsky grinned.

“We can be gods”, Prokopenko echoed, his lips stretching maliciously.

 

It took time for Kavinsky to master the art of stealing from dreams. He became frustrated very quickly, his father's temper showing its ugly face with every imperfect thing. Kavinsky never slept, but he was always dreaming. Of cars, drugs, money, of his father's heavy fists, of stray dogs and his own nightmares clawing at his throat.

Prokopenko frequently picked up the pieces of his friend, hungry for his creations. Soon there were cars, perfect copies of diplomas, alcohol, rainbow coloured pills. Prokopenko let Kavinsky loose, let him dream wilder and wilder things while keeping a firm hand around his neck.

Kavinsky knew. He didn't struggle.

 

While entering Aglionby Academy, they we're vaguely aware of their aura. They knew that people saw multiple cars strewn around the mansion they lived in. Kavinsky's reputation went miles ahead of him, rumors of his mobster of a father, of his drugs wrecked mother. He was a celebirty. Prokopenko let him bathe in limelights. As long as he remembered his rightful place Prokopenko had no problem with Kavinsky playing the lead.

 

After some time Prokopenko grew bored. Kavinsky was exciting, wild and unpredictable, but also the only one he had. He wanted someone else, someone new. Just as twisted as them, someone to take care of.

A stray.

 

Prokopenko saw Jiang at the beginning of their sophomore year. He was tugging an annoyed looking Skov behind him, threading fingers through his friend's obnoxiously pink hair.

_This one_ , he thought.  _B_ _oth of them._

 

For quite some time Jiang was the sole recipent of Prokopenko's fond looks and touches. Something about him made Prokopenko want to take care of him, keep him safe and satisfied in any way. He saw how Kavinsky looked at him, lips curling in amused smiles, but it wasn't important.

 

Prokopenko was a caretaker. No matter how you looked at him. Whether it was a stray dog or a stray _boy_ , it didn't matter. Prokopenko wanted something big, he wanted a family. So he handpicked people just as lonely, just as desperate as him and gave them home.

 

 

Prokopenko watched as Jiang stumbled over his words and legs, frantically trying to comprehend the idea of Kavinsky taking anything from his dreams.

“Wait, shit, fuck”, Jiang slurred, “so like, whatever you want?”

“Yeah”, Kavinsky grinned lazily, “anything”.

“Fucking hell”, Jiang howled excitedly, “so if I ask for a car-”.

“Tell me what it looks like and you can have it”.

“Holy motherfuck”, Jiang blinked rapidly, “this is the best shit my man, the best shit”.

 

Swan, in all honesty, made Prokopenko wary. Not nervous in any way, not at all. He was just too perceptive. Prokopenko knew where he stood with his other dogs, but Swan was tricky.

He came after Jiang, not him, so in the end he will stand with Jiang. Not him.

_However_ , Prokopenko mused, _Jiang is his_. His alone. So it's a win-win situation.

 

 

Kavinsky has been getting loose lately. Unguarded. That wouldn't do.

He headed towards the cellar rooms where Kavinsky liked to dream, leaving behind Skov and Jiang yelling viciously at each other and the game.

Kavinsky was stretched on the floor, his ribcage expading and receding rhytmically with his breathing. He looked almost serene, but Prokopenko knew about terrors clawing at Kavinsky's mind, saw the self inflicted scars when he wanted to fight his inner demons from the outside.

Prokopenko was a care taker above all.

Kavinsky stirred and stared at the ceiling with empty eyes for a while, a pile of dream things at his feet. He sat up, his spine produting and looked at Prokopenko with tired eyes.

“'s up?”, he murmured still slow from sleep.

Prokopenko tugged Kavinsky closer by his hair, and looked at him blankly.

“You've been slipping lately”, he whispered, moving his grip to Kavinsky's neck.

“It's been like that”, Kavinsky's answer wouldn't make sense if Proko hadn't know him so well.

“I see”, he hummed, “but get a grip, won't you?”.

“Yeah”.

“Good”, his voice dropped lower, “because you don't want to get me mad, do you?”.

“I don't”, Kavinsky murmured, eyes downcast, breathing picking up in the sligthest.

“Good”, Prokopenko nodded, relaxing his hold on Kavinsky's neck, going back to petting his hair with gentle hand.

“I don't know you at all, do I?”, Kavinsky smiled bitterly.

“Not at all”, Proko nodded, “but that's okay. I wouldn't want you to know”.

Kavinsky chuckled.

“You're my worst nightmare”.

“You have no idea how terrible I can be”, Prokopenko whispered, sliding his hand down Kavinsky's spine, “you have no idea who I am”.

“And you love that”, he murmured drowsily.

“Of course”, Proko cradled his friend's head in his lap, “go back to sleep Joseph. Dream me something”.

“I'll dream you the end of the world”, Kavinsky murmured, halfway asleep, “hellfire and gods' downfall”.

“We could be the new gods”, Prokopenko murmured, pressing his lips to Kavinsky's forehead. “Sweet dreams”.

 

 

 

Kavinsky dreamt of dying.

 


End file.
